Poems by Alan Patrick Traynor

Poems by Alan Patrick Traynor
From her wicker heart burns
the sweet perfume
Tweed and scales
In the dark blue moors
A prisoner
hissing like a kite pinned to the ground
And what is a heart
but a prisoner of birds, a kite
On the perch of my bones blazing
The torch of fire
on the soft herringbone clay
And she danced with the cobra
because its heart is blue
Made of glass
you cannot see
are her eyes
rolling in the green room
dancing in the mercy of waves
The nuclear light, that is her face
The whistling rooftops on the prairie
The modal dance of corn in the field
The patina of her skin
A pearl that needs the sea
The torch of fire
on her soft lit lips
Flying by the blazing
fruit bowl
a tiny atom
needs her
Day 1
I am an Order
Nothing else
The deep
Thin lines
The striped buried face
The uniform of measured bars
I am an experiment
The schizophrenic moth
The burrowed raven’s face
The hole that mocks
The floor
I am the skeleton mother
A voice that reads the grave
The borrowed sharpened flint
The moving horns
Of day
I am a needle
That carries no blood
Speak the dead
The albino crow
Whose feet without shoes
Into teeth of every hole
Speak the dead
And I never made it home!
I am an Order
Nothing else
And I was married
In the broken glass
Of the smoking sun
The tightened thread
That hatched the Ghetto’s breeze
And all I can do is hold onto the floating sun
Because forever sky is drowning
And all I can do is peel back the rowing moon
Because forever hands are howling
And when it comes
I am blackout
A wedding of ashes
That blows high the towel
Lanced are the clouds
That hold the face of love
And we flew into the earth that way
Down into the core
And we pulled out our thoughts
Through the worm’s forever missing laughter
Down into the core
Will you remember
What is half
Like I do
When Heaven is late
Horrid are the broken limbs of earth
The bulbs
The ground
Our feet
And never before
Has the hand that holds the sun
Behead the core
Oh season’s blade
So beats the thousand folds
So brutal
Oh wiry stars
Will you lift me up
Into my half
Into the something
Way-out after
Seven are the flames
That cut the weeks into your feet
Oh boiling hands
So blazing
And born wide open
Was the robin
That was hidden
Beneath the eyelids
Of the moon
Into our ashes
Our Apocalypse
That rains
So slowly upwards
So born was I
Will I
Burn so softly die
And die
Onto the bellowed moan
So upward goes the rain
That never
Made it home
Oh God
Forgive me
I am dead!
In your resting throne
The melting wood
That burns
The knot in snow
And die
Onto the ground
Onto the broken bones
Onto Love’s lost mote forgiveness
Into the fields of confiscation
The horrid hands
The broken glass
The inhumanity of stones our constellations
So rakes the mountain of flesh and sky
Upon the abacus that rose like bones
We are the beautiful
The horrific beauty
And we are dead
We are the hair
That crossed your hands
The rain that burnt your eyes
For seven days
I am cloth
I am Heaven
I am wire
There was no second day
…Never the last word

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